


Witchfinder

by Zoya1416



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angst, Class Issues, Gen, Hedge Witches, it runs in the family, witchfinder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a reason Peter Grant could see ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witchfinder

There's a reason Peter can see ghosts.

Peter's mother knew exactly what he was talking about when he tried to describe his job. She convinces him (mother powers, not witch powers) that he must be something like a witchfinder, which is a good job. However, being a witch, even in a small way, in Sierra Leone is dangerous rather than useful many times.

She had hoped that he would not manifest any occult powers, since in some ways they were a burden rather than a help, and it mainly showed in girls anyway. Girls were usually in their change years when the magic came. He was 20 years old when he saw his first ghost.

She tries to hide this from Nightingale as long as she can, but one day when he's eating dinner with her family, he finally catches on to the fact that the palm oil and dust he smells with her isn't due to her cooking and her job. She know he can hear jazz playing and feels a flash of heat when he sees her, in addition to these other signs.

Nightingale came into her tiny kitchen and said, “I need to talk to you.”  
She didn't say anything, but brought him into her bedroom and closed the door. There was nowhere more private. There was a small chair to the side of the bed, and its red-gold fabric was frayed. Of course the bed was made perfectly, with its gold and orange duvet. He sat down, holding his cane. 

“You are a witch.” He said it without doubt. “Trained? No, there are no formal schools in Sierra Leone. You must be a hedge witch. Tell me what powers you have.”

“Why should I tell you my secrets? Peter knows nothing of them. I don't hurt anyone.”

“Madam, I am the last fully trained Newtonian wizard in Britain. Your son will be the second, if he completes his apprenticeship. I do not want anything to distract him from his studies. If his mother gets in trouble over a matter of witchcraft, that would be grievous harm, and you know that. Tell me what you can do.”

She took a breath in, and rolled her shoulders. Her appearance changed. Her skin glowed, and then she was wearing an intricately tied green and red turban, and a figured green dress low on the shoulders, with a square neckline. She wore a three-tiered necklace of glittering green beads, and looked at least ten years younger.

He nods. “That's glamour. What else?”

She pauses, trying to put this the best way. “They give me money. They like me more than other cleaners—they flirt with me. They give me bonuses at Christmas.” She can make the owners of the businesses she cleans for like her a bit more—they do flirt with her—they pay her slightly more than other cleaners, and they always give good bonuses, $200 or more, at Christmas. She works for 4-5 businesses at a time, and an extra $1000 is a huge help.

“Seducere.” He said it with disapproval. “Anything else?

She hesitated much longer now, and saw that he was becoming angry. He was a powerful wizard, and what could she do if he decided to strike her? She was sure the cane was his staff. 

“I...no one is careful anymore. No one watches out when they cut their nails, or grind dirty hair into the carpet.”

If she thought he was angry before, it was nothing now. He glared at her. He nodded to the door, and she heard a 'thunk' at the lock. She could tell it wouldn't unlock from either side.

“You make poppets?”

“Just little ones, if they are very rude to me—not just once, but if they treat me poorly day after day, I have a right to—”

“You have no right at all to make poppets! It's dark, dark magic.”

“It's just for itchy bottoms! I give them itchy bottoms when they are in those long important meetings. The women as well—they suffer more.”

“So, madam—glamour is a mild deception—”

She burst out loudly against him. “So a poor woman can't look her best, while a rich woman can shop at Harrod's and Burberry? And get face-lifts whenever they chose. The rich women treat each other to spas, where they never notice the ones who work to purify and beautify them.”

He ignored her.

“If you can use seducere to make a man smile, you can use it to make him step in front of a bus. It must stop. But the other—if you can make a poppet—a _poppet_ (he was shouting at her), “ itchy bottoms are just the start of it. You can use the poppet to strike the heart, lungs, or brains.”

She broke in. “I wish Peter had never seen a ghost!”

“At times, madam, so do I.” Nightingale sits very still on the small chair, holding his cane. She can tell he's pondering what to do with her, and suddenly it's too much. She can't help speaking her mind.

“You sit there in your two thousand pound bespoke suit, and your 300 pound handmade shoes, and judge me? Who made your clothing, how much were they paid? My sisters and I, when we left Sierra Leone all together," (and no one would ever hear about that scrambling, fearful band of women) "we had nothing but the clothes we wore and our little scraps of magic. We've looked out for each other, all this time.”

He looks up at that, staring bleakly. “No more dark magic. Or, as Peter would say, no more unethical magic.”

It has come to this, the loss of her independence, but there is only one other place she can get help.

“I shall go to the Rivers. To Mama Thames. She will accept me. She will claim me and accept me. She has known of us small fish forever, but leaves us alone. But I will bind myself to her, and, and”—what can she give this white man in the expensive clothes? Knowledge, that is all.

“Mama Thames may want to send you messages privately, when no one else knows. I will come. I will come in through the servant door and speak to the maid with the sharp teeth. Peter will never see me.”

Nightingale accepts her choice, nodding. 

“I didn't want it to be like this,” he said slowly. “Peter is a good apprentice, better than good, and he wanted me to be part of his family dinners. But I am sworn to the Queen's Peace in magical affairs, and I couldn't overlook this. I—can't let anyone be endangered by magic.”

He stood up and flicked his hand at the door again. She brushed past him, and exited.  
Peter had been holding a nephew, swinging him, but he noticed when she came back out.  
She lifted her hand slightly, to make him a bit confused about what he saw, but then Nightingale came out behind her, quickly closing the door. He was smiling at her and at Peter.

“I've enjoyed your hospitality, Mrs. Grant, but I must leave now. Peter, can you catch a ride back?”

“Uh, no, sir, if you're going back, I'm ready to go too.” Peter leaned in close and Nightingale smelled the sharp tang of urine.

“They give me the leaky ones, and don't tell me. It's hilarious. I'll clean up a bit.”

Peter's mother went back to her kitchen, head up.

“You will honor me by accepting some food back to your house.” It wasn't a question, and she knew he had to say yes. She also knew that the container she picked for the lamb with its red chili sauce had a habit of leaking easily, and knew without being told that this one hated to get stains in his car. He might have to use magic to get it out. 

Peter came back. 

Nightingale said, “Peter, here's some leftovers from your mother. Why don't you run to the car and get that carrier bag with lining? Wouldn't want to lose a drop.”  
He glanced over to her, and closed one eye a tiny bit. It might be possible to sustain the glamour—Mama Thames wouldn't take that, she thought. She would be sorry to lose the seducere, but—might not Nightingale be generous to her at Christmas? It was possible. 

The other—the dark magic, he called it. If she gave away the power to harm—if she gave it away, well, she would not be in danger from that one's staff, even if he carried it as a cane. Mama Thames could make any decisions she wanted to, for good or not, and her best goal now was to seek the Mother quickly.

“Witchfinder,” she thought to him silently, “You have taken my powers. Now give as much more to Peter. He deserves it.”

Peter got to drive back to the Folly, but he kept looking over at Nightingale. “What was going on with you and my mother? You both looked really angry, but then you were both smiling.”

“Why don't you go back to your mother's in a few days and see whether she will talk to you? If she doesn't, I will.”

Nightingale closed his eyes, seeing only a green and red turbaned women dancing in her green dress.  
*******  
“He finally caught on, huh?” says her husband, coming up to her later when all the guests have gone. “Leave me alone,” she says.

He goes to his jazz room, and puts on a favorite tune. She smiles, and holds out her hands, knowing he didn't see anything when she was in the room with Nightingale, but somehow he knew—he's put on Miles Davis' “Kind of Blue,” and the song is “Blue and Green.”


End file.
